Page 68 of Desired By Eros

“Oh,” she muttered, still groggy. But then something in her expression changed. Her posture stiffened as she sat up, leaning against the headboard and putting space between them. “We need to talk about what’s going to happen.”

“Right. Well, the twins’ birthday party is later,” he offered.

“Yeah,” she said, exhaling slowly, “and I want to come back here on my own, not with you.”

A sharp ache settled in his chest, and his thoughts swirled, unraveling faster than he could catch them. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his frustration in check. “Maybe we should talk after you get ready.”

Psyche crossed her arms. “I’m still going to say the same thing. I’m not changing my mind.”

He swallowed hard, nodding once. “Okay.” There was nothing else to say—not now, at least. He forced himself to step back even though every instinct told him to stay, to argue, to make her see what she meant to him. But he wasn’t going to do that. Not when she looked at him like this, like she had already made up her mind.

He got up to give her space. “I’ll be outside,” he said over his shoulder before stepping onto the deck.

Eros leaned against the wooden railing, exhaling sharply as he stared out into the trees. The wind was soft, rustling through the leaves, but it didn’t ease the tightness in his chest. What karma. He, the god of love and desire, who had spent millennia playing with hearts, never caring beyond a fleeting moment of pleasure, was now standing here, heart in his hands, and Psyche didn’t want anything to do with him.

He laughed, low and humorless, shaking his head. He had never been on this side of things before. Never been the one left aching, the one waiting, the one hoping for something he couldn’t control. He had been worshipped, chased, adored—never rejected. But Psyche looked ready to walk away.

And the worst part? He couldn’t blame her.

Their last fight played in his mind like a cruel replay, every word, every sharp edge of his own fear and pride cutting into him. She had trusted him, and he had let his own arrogance,his own cowardice, push her away. He hadn’t told her the truth about how he felt—because he hadn’t known then. Or maybe he had, but admitting it had felt like giving up some part of himself. And now? Now he had no choice but to face it. He loved her. He loved her, and he might have already lost her.

Maybe he deserved this. Maybe he had spent so long playing with love that when he finally felt it, the universe had decided to make him earn it. Even if he was the god of love and desire.

The memories surfaced, unbidden and relentless and he let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. His past had shaped him into the man standing here now, and for the first time, he let himself really feel the weight of it.

Thoughts of Cyncus and how their lives unraveled under his cruelty, how Aphrodite had hidden the bruises behind radiant smiles, how they had spent years pretending everything was fine until it wasn’t. The night they escaped still burned in his mind—the cold rush of fear, the way his mother clutched his hand so tightly he thought she might break him. Hephaestus had been their salvation, the one steady force in their chaotic world. He had taught Eros what it meant to stand tall, to be more than just a name, more than just a god others used for their own gain.

And then there were the trials to get the pyxis. Fighting through the Fields of Punishment, diving into the Acheron, facing the siren—every step, every choice, leading him to that damned pyxis. He had done it to get his father’s magic back, to restore what had been taken. But now, standing here, staring out into the trees, he realized it wasn’t just about that. It had never been just about that.

It had been about Psyche.

Everything had led him here—to this moment, to this woman, to the unbearable ache in his chest as he waited for her to come outside and tell him whether he had a place in her life or not.

Eros watched as Psyche stepped outside, her soft steps barely making a sound on the porch. She was dressed in comfortable clothes, a simple outfit that somehow made her look even more beautiful. She had an effortless grace, but there was something about the way she moved now, distant and careful, that made his heart ache.

He wanted nothing more than to walk to her, to pull her into his arms and reassure her, to feel her warmth against him, to make everything feel okay again. But he didn’t. He knew that was the last thing she needed right now. He had to show her he understood, that her feelings mattered more than his desires.

Rhythmic tapping filled the air and he noticed her fingers tapping against the wooden railing, a repetitive motion, small but telling. His gaze lingered there, and then he asked, “Why do you do that?”

She stopped, a brief hesitation before her gaze flickered away from him. “It’s stimming,” she said, the words coming out softly, as though they were both a defense and an explanation. “It means I’m stressed.”

He watched her avoid his gaze, clearly trying to keep herself composed, but he could see the struggle in her body language. He could feel the tension in the air, the distance she was putting between them, and he knew that whatever he did next would either bridge that gap or make it wider.

He took a deep breath, realizing the truth of what he needed to do. He couldn’t be the one who caused her stress, not when she was already carrying so much inside her. He’d fought to be close to her, but he knew that he had to let her take the lead now.

“It’s okay, Psyche. I’ll do what you want. Let’s go to Anchorage.”

He hoped those words would be enough. He hoped that, somehow, they would help her feel seen, feel safe, even if it wasn’t exactly what he’d dreamed of.

Chapter 13

Psyche

Psyche sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers gripping the soft fabric of her blanket as she stared at the wall. The distant sounds of laughter and conversation drifted through the halls of the pack house, a reminder of the celebration happening soon. But she couldn’t bring herself to join in, not yet.

She exhaled sharply and ran a hand through her hair. Normally, she had ways to calm herself—structured tasks, repeating patterns, deep breathing—but none of it was working. Her thoughts kept circling back to Eros, to the way she had ended things.

It was the right choice. It had to be.

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